What’s worse than having Rider Kingston, the star quarterback, give you the big brushoff because he doesn’t want to get serious? You’d probably think living across the street from him where you get a first-hand view of his hookups, right?

That’s what I thought. Until someone drops off a baby with a note pinned to her blanket that says one of those jocks—either Rider or one of his roommates—is the father. The problem? Baby mama doesn’t mention which of these numbskulls is the sperm donor.

I wouldn’t care about their paternity problems—not the slightest bit—except my brother lives there too. Which means that adorable squawking bundle might be my niece, and there’s no way I’m leaving her unattended with those bumbling football players.

They need my help, even if they don’t know it yet. Once we solve this dilemma and figure out who’s the daddy, I’m out.

I’ll just ignore Rider and those soul-searing looks he gives me every time I reach for the baby. He broke my heart three years ago. He doesn’t get a second chance.